The Other Laura

by Sheryl Lynn

  After searching through the spreadsheets, bank statements and a filing box full of old ledgers, she’d determined that an entire checkbook ledger for the ranch account had disappeared. She could tally up about a third of the checks from the book, including two taken out of sequence, but the book itself was gone.

  That was important, somehow. It had to do with her dream and running with the book clutched to her chest. Her efforts to remember why it was important gave her a headache. Giving up on the puzzle of missing checks, she turned her attention to a credit card account. Maybe that’s where she’d find proof of a mistress.

  She pulled a manila folder from the file cabinet. It was fat with receipts and statements for a single credit card. The majority of purchases were for clothing, lingerie, jewelry and perfume, but all the receipts bore her signature. It sickened her to see how wildly, almost vengefully she’d spent Ryder’s money. She returned to the file cabinet and pulled the folders for all the credit cards.

  Laura’s disgust grew as she totaled the thousands of dollars she’d spent on beauty parlors alone. Her clothing bills had been through the roof. She stared at one receipt that listed simply, Blouse, the cost six hundred and fiftynine dollars. She’d also had a propensity to spend cash, four and five hundred dollars at a time taken as an advance against her credit cards or drawn via ATM from her checking account.

  Ryder’s lone credit card showed a far different life-style. He used the card for gasoline purchases, airline tickets, art supplies, books and miscellaneous items from feed and tack stores. He’d spent approximately one dollar for every hundred Laura had spent.

  She found a few receipts from jewelry stores. There he showed a lavish streak. One receipt was for a very expensive bracelet. Before accepting it as proof of infidelity, she returned to the file cabinet for a household inventory sheet filed under insurance. She found a listing for a diamond tennis bracelet. The date of purchase matched the credit card receipt.

  Painstaking research of the household inventory accounted for every piece of expensive jewelry Ryder had purchased with a credit card. She also followed a hunch about hotel charges, but all of them matched up to trips he’d taken to attend art shows. It didn’t prove he’d been accompanied by a girlfriend, but it didn’t disprove it, either.

  A listing on a monthly statement made her heart race. For months and months he had a regular charge running with a florist. Then she remembered the yellow roses with which he’d once filled her bedroom.

  Frustrated in her search, she turned her attention to telephone bills. The ranch had five telephone lines — hers, Ryder’s, the house, the office and Tom Sorry’s cabin. The office bills showed hundreds of long distance phone calls. Guessing they were legitimate business calls, she set those aside. She checked six months worth of bills for Ryder’s private line. She copied down every long-distance call recorded, and then did the same for the house line.

  His girlfriend probably didn’t live so far away that calling her was long distance, but it was a lead.

  “Daddy!”

  Abby’s yell startled Laura and she jumped, knocking her elbow against the file cabinet. White-hot pain shot up her arm to her shoulder For a long moment she stood perfectly still, not breathing, eyes shut, teeth clenched.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, baby?” She opened her eyes. Her stinging funny bone throbbed. She rubbed it briskly.

  Abby peered with interest at the open file drawers, stacks of folders, piles of receipts and the slow-motion geometric shapes of the screen saver floating across the computer monitor “What you doing?” She clutched a large construction-paper folder in both hands.

  Good question. Ryder had all but admitted to having an affair, so she didn’t need hard evidence. No matter what logic said, she knew in her heart Ryder would never, under any circumstances, have tried to kill her.

  Abby thrust forward the folder. Its chalky red surface had been drawn on with markers and crayons. “I got my pictures.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Last day of camp. My goodness, where is the summer going? You’ll be starting first grade pretty soon.” Her heart climbed into her throat and lodged there. If Laura did find proof of the girlfriend and she did inform Becky Solerno that she believed Ryder might have a motive to hurt her, then what would happen to Abby?

  Inviting Abby to sit on the desk chair, Laura took the folder. It was filled with drawings, nature-hike worksheets and shapes cut out of construction paper then carefully pasted onto card stock.

  Laura fixated on Abby’s name. For the first time she saw it in print, not Abigail Hudson, but Abigail Weis. How that must distress Ryder. It caused her almost physical pain.

  “You did very well, baby. Your counselors must be sad to see you go.”

  Abby cocked her head. “I’m not going nowhere.” She suddenly pushed off the stool and hopped excitedly “There’s Daddy!” She raced out of the office.

  Through the big windows in the studio, Laura saw Ryder riding his big buckskin quarter horse. Moving gracefully with the horse, he was so handsome, so big and sure, it hurt her heart to look at him. Looking around the now messy office, she was torn. If Ryder had been the one who tried to kill her, it must have been because she meant to take Abby away.

  Did that excuse him?

  She moved to the window and put her hands behind her back.

  Abby ran up to her father and grabbed his stirrup. His horse stopped dead in his tracks and stood patiently while the little girl twisted, wiggled and danced dangerously close to his hooves. Ryder leaned over and caught Abby by the back of her britches, hauling her up behind him. Holding on to the back of his saddle, she was talking a mile a minute. Even under the shade of his broad-brimmed hat, Laura could see the smile on her husband’s face.

  She turned her head enough to see through the office doorway. That was the past, dusty and disordered and mostly forgotten.

  If Ryder had hurt her, it must have been in a moment of panic. How he must suffer for it every day. He’d suffered enough.

  She loved him.

  She didn’t think of herself as one of what Becky Solerno called love-thick women who’d suffer horrible abuse and even the threat of death at the hands of men they hoped would change. If there had been any type of physical or emotional abuse in her marriage, she didn’t remember any of it.

  She remembered his voice encouraging her to awaken from a coma. She remembered his tears when he realized she would live. He’d been there every single day while she’d been in the hospital. During her long months of convalescence and countless surgeries to repair her damaged face and mangled leg, he’d been there, holding her hand, enduring her pain with her. It had been him seeing to her comfort, making sure she had everything she needed. He accompanied her to the hospital for physical and emotional therapy.

  She remembered the heat of his soulful kisses and the sparkling, hungry joy in his eyes when they made love. His tenderness when he held her. The gentleness of his strong, callused hands. The husky way he whispered endearments in her ear. She remembered all that.

  She didn’t remember jealousy and hatred and threats to rip away Abby from his side.

  She walked steadily, head high, to the office. She turned off the computer, shut off the lights and closed the door.

  If Ryder had a girlfriend, Laura determined right then and there, he wouldn’t. have one for long. She’d been through too much, survived too much, fought back for too long to give up now. A piddly little creature like a mistress didn’t stand a chance against her.

  STRANGE DAY, Ryder thought as he opened his bedroom door. He now stood firm in his conviction that Laura was actually Teresa Gallagher. He also felt certain that until he had proof, it would be hurtful, if not downright cruel, to inform Laura that she wasn’t his wife.

  Finding proof would be the hard part.

  He suspected figuring out what had happened would be even more difficult.

  He’d ridden to the quarry in the hopes of getting an idea. The quarry wa
s about half a mile from the house, off to the side of the county road. Ryder had always considered it a death trap. Around the turn of the century, red sandstone had been a popular building material. Back then, the quarry owners hadn’t figured leaving a hole in the ground would hurt anything. Over the years it had filled with twenty or thirty feet of water, an irresistible lure for reckless kids and a danger for drivers who didn’t know the road.

  If Laura had shot Teresa, it was easy to see how in her panic she could have smacked into a boulder, disabling her car. If it had been him, though, he’d have gone to the other side where the drop-off was steep, straight into the water. So why push the Mercedes over the side where chance said it would catch on the rocks rather than hit the water?

  Because Laura wasn’t smart. She was clever and she was sly. She had a gift for finding a person’s weakness and exploiting it. In her cruelty, she could be as cunning as a rat. But she was mostly arrogant, shortsighted and pretty damned stupid.

  Imagining she was out there somewhere, figuring out a way to cover her blunder so she could come back, gave him chills. And she would be back. Of that he felt not the slightest doubt. If not for the money, then because she couldn’t bear the thought of another woman taking her place.

  In the meantime, he didn’t know what to do about Tess. If he said, “Honey, let’s go to the doctor and find out if you’re Laura or Tess,” she would freak. After all the hell she’d been through, it seemed downright mean to tell her it was all for nothing.

  It seemed mean, too, to leave things as they stood.

  He guessed she’d spent the day looking for proof of his infidelity. She hadn’t been any too subtle about pawing through receipts and old ledger books in the office. Next, he supposed, would be her going through his clothes in search of lipstick stains, alien perfume or phone numbers in his pockets.

  He entered the dining room with every intention of broaching the subject. Her mood made him suspicious, though. She and Abby were giggly and silly, celebrating Abby’s last day of summer camp. Laura set the table with the finest china and silver. They had cake for dessert and drank grape juice out of crystal champagne flutes. Laura didn’t exhibit a single sign of jealousy.

  Ryder couldn’t get a whiff of the storm he knew had to be brewing. Unable to bear his thoughts, he retreated to his room. He found a baseball game on television and a Western novel to read.

  Abby skipped into his room and climbed up on the bed beside him. She made faces at the ball game and pronounced it icky. She demanded the remote control.

  “Beat it, sugar bear.” He tucked the remote under his body. “I’m watching the game. You’re going to bed.”

  “I wanna watch cartoons,” she said, pouting.

  “Listen to your father, young lady.”

  Ryder looked up as Laura entered the room. Her peignoir grabbed his attention. Made of shiny peach-colored silk, trimmed in ecru lace, the gown flowed like liquid over her slender figure and puddled luxuriously around her feet.

  “Ah, Mama.” Abby hugged Ryder around the neck. “I wanna stay up with Daddy.”

  Laura held out her arms. The thin fabric over her breasts outlined erect nipples that beckoned for his touch. His fingers tingled with the urge to fondle her.

  “Come on. Kiss your daddy. I’ll tuck you in.” She gave Ryder a faint smile. “Say good-night to your child, father dear.”

  “Good night, child,” he said obediently, and peeled her arms from around his neck. He looped his arm around her and pulled her over his shoulder. She giggled and squirmed, resisting his efforts to kiss her good-night. He finally planted a big one on her forehead.

  Playing baby, she squealed for her mother to pick her up. Laura held out a hand, tapping a foot in mock impatience until Abby hopped off the bed and took her hand. “I want you to read Winnie the Pooh, Mama.”

  Mama... the word slashed Ryder’s heart. The pair of them fit as if matched in heaven. When Laura closed the door, he groaned and buried his face against his arm. Please be Laura, he prayed, let this all be crazy thinking and she’s my wife and everything is okay.

  Twenty minutes later, his door opened and Laura walked in. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m getting ready for bed, dear.” The corners of her mouth tipped in a smile. She shrugged out of her dressing robe.

  The loose-fitting gown gaped, revealing the rounded swell of her breast. When she turned to drape the robe over a chair, the fabric clung to her backside as smooth as still water. The back of the gown was cut so low he could see twin dimples at the base of her spine. Heat flooded his groin.

  “Bed?” he said.

  She used both hands to fluff her hair through her fingers. Her breasts bounced gently, fixating him. “That’s right. Bed. Sleep.” She plucked the paperback Western off the bed and set it on the nightstand. “Whatever.”

  Paralyzed by desire, he watched her swish around the end of the bed and climb onto the other side.

  She wasn’t his wife. He couldn’t cheat on his wife.

  She reached around his chest and felt under his ribs. His breath lodged in his throat. Liquid heat melted his joints. She found the remote control and muted the sound on the baseball game still in progress

  Maybe she was his wife. She could be Laura. Chances were she was Laura and he was loco and looking for trouble.

  Nearly nose to nose with him, she said, “I don’t mind getting up at four o’clock in the morning. I’m sure I can find plenty to do.”

  Desire burned in her soft brown eyes...desire for him. Delicate perfume tickled his nose.

  Slowly, luxuriously as a sinuous cat, she lowered her head and placed her soft lips to his throat. His Adam’s apple constricted. “I love you,” she breathed against his skin. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

  He couldn’t resist her to save his life.

  Or hers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ryder stood tall and waved both arms in wide arcs, trying to catch Abby’s attention. Whooping and hollering, the girl raced her palomino pony across the meadow. The pony splashed through a puddle and water rooster-tailed behind his flying hooves.

  Ryder glanced at Laura. Seated upon an Indian blanket spread over the ground, she pressed both hands over her mouth. Wide-eyed, she stared in fascinated horror at Abby’s daredevilry.

  Abby ripped loose with a war whoop and hauled in the reins. Buttermilk obediently tucked his hindquarters, giving his best scrub-pony imitation of a champion quarter horse slide stop.

  “She’s so little,” Laura breathed, her complexion slightly green.

  Abby did look like a monkey perched on the saddle. The stirrups were raised so high that the leathers looked like balls beneath the housing. Ryder stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. When Abby looked his way, he gestured for her to come back. Abby reined her pony in a wide, lazy circle and urged him into a lope.

  Laura lowered her head so her wide hat brim shielded her face. “She rides too fast. I don’t know if my poor heart can take this.”

  “She rides like a buffalo hunter,” he said with a prideful grin. “Shoot, my daddy had me riding before I was walking. Owned my first horse when I was three. She’s just being a kid.”

  He sat beside Laura. She handed him a glass of lemonade, along with a look that said she thought he was just being a kid, as well.

  Ryder loved that look. He loved all the ways she looked at him. The hot, smoky looks that turned him to molten butter inside. The gentle, humorous glint in her eyes when he or Abby did something she found funny. A look of serious concentration putting faint lines in her forehead when she was working in the office.

  Abby reached them. She jumped off the saddle and let Buttermilk’s reins trail. The pony blew a wet snort and lowered his muzzle to graze the grass. “I’m gonna ride rodeo, Mama! Daddy’s gonna get me a barrel racing horse and I’m gonna ride broncos, too.”

  “Is that so?” She lifted an eyebrow. “What about steer roping? Mrs. Weatherbee said s
he caught you trying to rope the barn cats.”

  Abby pulled a face. “I’m just practicing the hula-hula.”

  Ryder pressed knuckles to his smile. “Hoolihan, sugar bear.”

  “What’s a hoolihan?” Laura asked.

  “It’s a way to rope horses,” Ryder explained. “Kind of quiet and slow so as not to spook them.” He turned his attention to his daughter. “All right, you’ve showed off enough. Walk Buttermilk to cool him off and head him back to the barn. After you rub him down, ask Mr. Tom to put some fly spray on his face and ears.”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  Side by side on the blanket, Ryder and Laura watched Abby walk her pony around the meadow. The picnic in the meadow above the house had been Laura’s idea. “It’s a perfect day,” she’d declared, and he had to agree.

  The temperature was not quite eighty degrees; a touch of cooling wind rustled the tops of the ponderosa pines and made the aspens sing. A prairie falcon soared overhead, and a cheeky gray jay teased them for handouts from the safety of the scrub oak. All around them the meadow was abloom with red Indian paintbrush, bright yellow cinquefoil, blue lupine and pink fireweed. Far to the south, mountain peaks above twelve thousand feet still wore tattered mantles of snow in defiance of the summer sun.

  Laura had packed cold steak sandwiches, noodle salad and chocolate cupcakes. Ryder couldn’t imagine a nicer way to spend the day.

  Unless ... A straw hat with a floppy brim protected Laura’s face and, along with her pale, float-skirted dress, made her look as if she had stepped out of a perfume advertisement. If not for the kid, and Tom Sorry less than a hundred yards away in the barn, and Mrs. Weatherbee puttering around in the house, he’d make love to her under the sun. For the time being he contented himself with his thigh resting alongside hers and the tips of his fingers laying a claim to her hand.